


Silver to the Heart

by LearnedFoot



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28199319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: “Bit on the nose, don’t you think?” she muses, calm, as if she’s not standing on the edge of a towering building with the madmen who’s threatening to destroy the twenty city blocks around them. “I get it: you want my hands stained with your blood. But an actual knife? That’s taking the metaphor too literally.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48
Collections: Writing Rainbow Silver





	Silver to the Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FictionPenned](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy!

“All you have to do is kill me, Doctor. Just shove the knife in.”

The Master’s breath is hot on the Doctor’s face, erratic, chest rising and falls in rapid bursts beneath the blade pressed to his sternum. His eyes burn with the same panic she saw there on Gallifrey, when he begged her to wipe out the planet and herself.

“Bit on the nose, don’t you think?” she muses, calm, as if she’s not standing on the edge of a towering building with the madmen who’s threatening to destroy the twenty city blocks around them. “I get it: you want my hands stained with your blood. But an actual knife? That’s taking the metaphor too literally.”

His nostrils flare; he raises his right hand, showing off the small, ticking box he has clutched in trembling fingers.

Why do the boxes always tick? The Doctor’s pretty sure it’s not a required feature.

“It’s me or them.” The Master’s smile is all teeth and anger. “Come on, Doctor, time to play hero. I know you love that. Stop my hearts or the bomb goes off.”

“You know that’s normally the other way around, yeah?”

But this isn’t an insurance scheme. He doesn’t want to live. He wants to go out in a blaze of glory and drag her down with him as he falls.

Except he must know better, somewhere deep in that rattled brain of his. There’s nothing he can force her to do that she hasn’t already done ten times over; she doesn’t need his help drenching herself in blood she never wanted to shed.

So what is this really about?

“Stop your hearts, huh?” she reflects, pressing the knife closer: teasing him with the possibility that she’ll actually do it.

The fingers of his free hand meet hers, wrapping around the hilt of the knife, pulling it closer. His skin is warm, hotter than it should be, as if his fury is burning through. Too many metaphors are being made literal right now. 

“Ferreus silver,” he explains, leaning in. His beard scratches her cheek as he whispers, “Straight to the hearts. You know what that means.”

Yes, she does: it means they won’t start again. No regeneration. It also means she’s holding a piece of metal that can cut through anything.

Now that’s what she calls a good old fashioned cry for help. He always was the king of those.

She smiles, tilts her head, and presses her lips to his neck. The gesture is light, barely there, but unmistakably a kiss.

How’s that for making someone’s heart stop?

The Master gasps in shock, fingers loosening. It’s all the time the Doctor needs to twist the knife free, lunge to the side, and stab straight into the bomb trigger. The ticking turns into a whine that fades to nothing after several long moments.

The Doctor holds her breath for one second, two seconds, five seconds, ten. No explosion. Destroying the box ended the threat.

She lets out the breath, more relieved than she would like to admit. That was a bigger risk than she should have taken. But it was the Master, and he was asking for help. She had to.

Speaking of the Master, he’s currently curled on the rooftop, clutching the hand that had been holding the trigger to his chest and moaning. She must’ve cut him on accident, and of course he’s being dramatic about that, too.

She crouches to his level. “Sorry about that. But you were kind of asking for it.” She reaches for the hand. “Can I see?”

He flinches away, teeth barred. “Leave me alone.”

“After you just went to so much trouble to get my attention? That doesn’t sound like me.”

He glares. “You always have to have the last word, don’t you, Doctor?”

He might have a point there, but pot, meet kettle.

With a sigh, she stands and sweeps the knife in an arc, landing the tip a hair’s breadth away from the Master’s forehead. Sometimes you just have to speak his language: melodrama.

“The way I see it, we have two options here,” she tells him, wiggling the knife. “Either I pretend I’m going to use the knife and you pretend to believe me and I lead you to the TARDIS with this stupid thing in your back. Or”—she tosses the knife to her other hand, leaving the extended one empty—“we skip the dramatics for once and you come with me by choice.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he takes her hand.

She’ll call that a start.


End file.
